Beers and Beards
Book 4: Chapter 47: Stop the Presses!

As we ascended the wooden steps up the poplar, I had to pause a few times to catch my breath. It wasn’t so much that I was out of shape, but that I really struggled with heights.

The Chateau was split up over multiple levels of the poplar, with a total of three main buildings, each roughly the size of the elven embassy back in Kinshasa. That made them small, but still big enough to work in. They were made of a lighter coloured wood than the rest of the woodwork I’d seen thus far, with lovely gild filigree and fancy etching. Their roofs were mostly thatch, with a sheen that spoke of enchantments or chemical treatment.

A fourth, larger building lay at the crown of the poplar, where it swayed back and forth in a gentle breeze. I shivered as a branch creaked.

“Dear Barck, Yearn, and Tiara. Please make sure nothin’ breaks while I’m up there,” I prayed.

Romero chuckled. “You need not worry yourself. This winery hath stood for 2000 years. It will be most fine. Besides, well… you shall see.”

I pointed to the building at the apex of the tree. “Is that yer’ wine, er, cellar?”

Romero nodded. “Yes. The final resting place for mine wine. It is the highest point, as well as the lowest, as it where I must say my farewells to each vintage before it is shipped.”

I nodded. I knew the feeling. The hardest part of being a brewer was watching your hard work disappear, drunk by someone else.

Of course, that was also the most rewarding part, knowing that someone was appreciating your work.

We reached the doorway after a solid hour of climbing stairs, or a couple seconds, who could tell, and Romero swung it open with a grand gesture.

“Welcome to my home away from home,” he said, the warmth in his voice practically palpable.

It was… anticlimactic. The room was still small when viewed from the inside, barely larger than a standard classroom. Thankfully there weren’t any windows, so I was able to breathe a bit easier. There were also five other elves standing waiting inside.

One was the young helfess we’d seen down below. The other four ran the gamut from belf to gelf, and all wore identical yellow sarongs with a red symbol emblazoned on the shoulder. The symbol was a bunch of grapes, with a red crown above them.

“We present our bows to you, Master Romero, distinguished guest.” The oldest of the bunch, a leathery skinned belf said, and they all raised their hands above their heads like branches and then bowed at the waist. Was that… a tree pun??

Romero smiled sagely. “Thank you, students. May I present Master Brewer Roughtuff, the Forefather of Brewing that you may have heard tell of.”

There were some shocked glances at that, and one of the helves bit his lip with excitement. Ah, alcohol nerds.

“Do you mind talking with the youngsters for a moment, Peter? I must handle one quick issue.”

I nodded, mutely, and Romero trod off and out one of the doors to a higher building. The students set upon me at once, asking questions, begging for me to etch their bark, and talking excitedly about their work.

The gist I got was that these were an excitable group of apprentices who loved their job. They were also the only ones crazy enough to stick around doing the same job for thousands of years. They very much reminded me of the dwarves I’d met in the early days, obsessed with the Sacred Brew in a practically worshipful faction.

The only difference being that they couldn’t actually make the stuff, just help. One of them was over four thousand years old, and he’d been doing nothing but bottling that entire time.

Bottling.

For four thousand years.

He broke the tedium by spending his off days doing live combat in the gladiatorial arena and playing an elvish game called Topknots. It apparently involved a bunch of knotted ropes tied between canopies several dozen meters above the ground, and a ball, and kododos. There were no nets.

Understandably, only elves played it.

I swore then and there to never, ever, watch a game of Topknot. Or ever bottle again if I could help it.

Romero returned a few minutes later and shooed his gaggle of students away. They immediately withdrew, with only a few sounds of disappointment.

“So, what do ya do in here? I asked when they’d all gone. There were a lot of shelves, tables, and buckets lying around in here, as well as a large contraption against one wall. It was made of metal, with a long handle on the side. I could just make out a mess of pipes entering it from the outside wall. “I’m gonna guess it’s yer pressin’ room?”

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“Correct!” Romero proclaimed, leading me to the contraption, which had to be the grape press. “This took me many centuries to get just right, and only works in conjunction with mine own unique collection of skills.”

“When do you press?” I asked, looking it over. It appeared to be a horizontal press, with a crank handle for running the roller. It actually looked quite similar to the style we used back home, though with manual instead of automated power. I liked horizontal presses, though some vintners swore by the older vertical press, which looked pretty much identical to the apple press we’d used to make cider. I preferred the horizontal press because it was easier to clean and could handle more wine per hour.

The fermented red wine, along with the cap, would be pumped through his fancy anti-gravity pipes to arrive at the end of the press, where it would be flattened to squeeze out the last of the juice and wine. The remnants of the skins left over after pressing were another form of pomace, which could be used for fertilizer and everything else pomace was good for.

“I press based upon the taste.” Romero said, picking up a cloth and buffing out some unseen blemish on the exposed metal of the press.

“Um… how sweet, would you say?” I asked. To taste wasn’t an uncommon way of deciding when to press red wine, but it wasn’t as exacting as the numbers he’d been using so far.

“When the sweetness is completely removed. I try to stay within a single percentage of the same flavour every time. Rowan has gotten adept at tasting with tolerance, so I’ve been getting her to do it recently. I have an Ability called [Romero’s Sense Sweetness] that tells me the exact numbers.”

Oh, so he was cheating.

“We’d call that to dryness, when tha’ sugar’s all been converted. That’s when I usually did it, unless I was makin’ a sweet wine. Or a white. I used a hydrometer though, not ta taste.”

Romero’s eyes twinkled. “May I have one of those ‘hydrometers’?”

“Sure. Not a problem.”

“What of the sweet wine? White wine? Please, do tell!”

“Red wines use red grapes, white wines use white grapes. Sweet wine is any wine without sour grapes, nyuck!”

Romero blinked. “I don’t follow.”

“Um. We can talk about Sweet Wine later. Red wine uses a dark red grape, like yer spirit grapes. In me old world we’d use Merlot, Pinot Noir, or Cabernet Sauvignon, amongst too many ta count. White wines use white grapes, like Riesling, Pinot Gris, Pinot Plang, or Sauvignon Blanc. The wines were often named after tha mix of grapes themselves, along with tha year or vintage, and tha maker. Like an ‘08 Wayne Gretzky Signature Series Cabernet Merlot.”

“Made by this Wayne Gretzky, in the year ‘08 with a mix of Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon?" Romero asked, running through it in his head.

“Aye! There are a couple other differences in tha’ production. White wines use a closed container, rather than an open one. And you press ‘em before fermenting, or not at all. Red wines are fermented and then pressed because ya want ta leech tha final tannins, colour, and flavour from tha’ skins. Leavin’ the wine skins in durin’ fermentin’ also gives a dark, deep colour, to tha must and a more astringent flavour ta match.”

“Not pressed at all?” Romero asked, his eyes sparkling.

I nodded. “The juice from crushin’ is called ‘Free Run Juice’, while after pressin’ yer left with ‘Pressed Wine’. Pressed wine is darker, and more complex, while Free Run is a bit more refreshin’ and lighter in colour. With white grapes ya’ want it clear, and not as astringent. It’s meant more ‘fer deserts or lighter foods. Some vintners keep their Free Run Juice and pressed wine separate, while some mix ‘em into the final product.”

Romero sighed. “I mix mine. It sounds like trying my hand at white wine would be a fascinating exercise, but there simply aren’t any white spirit grapes. I suppose I could always find another species, but I wouldn’t have much time for my reds in the meantime. Agh, what a dilemma!” He rubbed his neck in irritation.

“Aye, you’ll need ta pick and choose yer time I guess. Don’t you have time right now, though?”

“That’s true…” Romero looked thoughtful.

I cleared my throat. “So, how’s the press work?”

Romero pointed. “I’ll show you. Come over and I’ll start cranking.”

I followed him around the press, and he pulled a lever, releasing a fountain of purple into the press. WIth his sleeves rolled up, he began to turn the lever. The ease of his motion belied how heavy the thing had to be.

I watched with fascination. Presses were always neat to watch, as long as you kept your fingers and loose clothes away. His design used a series of gears to spin the large roller, while a conveyor belt moved the skins through. There was a faint rumble as well, and I could see some levers moving under the belt, providing an uneven pressing surface as he turned. Enchantments flared to life every few seconds, performing some unseen function.

“How efficient is it?” I asked, as I watched a particularly large clump of grapes get sucked into the press, only to turn into nothing but juice at the end.

“It provides a near 100% press, with no breakage!”

I gasped. “You’re joking! A perfect press!?”

He nodded vigorously. “Yes! You understand how difficult it was to get just right? My [Soft Tools] plays a major part, of course, along with [Artisan’s Sight].”

I did understand. Breaking the grape skins during pressing or grinding was the cardinal sin for vintners, and most presses were happy to get ninety percent of the juice out of the grapes, often less, and here he was brushing off the holy grail of winemaking like it was nothing!

Well, maybe in this world it was normal.

The pressed wine began dribbling out of the press, where it fell down an open pipe to be whisked away to the next location. “Don’t suppose you could share tha’ blueprints?” I asked in fascination.

“For you? Just for the inspiration you’ve provided alone, I’m happy to share it. You won’t be able to make my red, but perhaps it will help you make your own whites. And, done.” With a final creak of the wheel, Romero clattered to a stop. He spun his shoulders a few times and cracked his neck. “Always good exercise, that.”

“I’m guessin’ it’s clarifying next? And then storage?” I asked, pointing to the door leading to the next set of stairs.

“Correct! And a surprise for you too, I think.” Romero smiled mischeviously.

“A surprise?? I blinked.

“Yes, yes. Now, come along, we still have yet much to see.” Romero pulled me away from the press and out the door to the next building.

Which led to a rope bridge that yawned out over the abyss.

I didn’t pull out my hammer and brain him. But it was a close thing.